mind body mama: Believing the Children

This editorial appears in the June 29, 2012 issue of the Daily Hampshire Gazette.

Last week a jury convicted Penn State's former assistant football coach, Jerry Sandusky, of 45 out of a possible 48 counts in the child sexual abuse trial that rocked a legendary athletic program, a college campus and our nation. He received a virtual life sentence.

Within hours of the verdict, online communities were rife with comments celebrating the court's decision and proclaiming that Sandusky "deserved" to be raped in prison.

As a mother, I share the outrage of loving adults horrified by the damage this man wreaked on young children. But as an anti-violence educator I stand by what I tell my self-defense students: "There is nothing you can do or be that could make you deserve to be raped." When I say "nothing," I mean it. This includes being a rapist. My vision is not of a world where perpetrators are perpetrated against. It is of a world free of sexual assault.

One of the marks of a civil society is the strength, fairness and effectiveness of its justice system. Not its vengeance system. The wish to see Sandusky sexually violated - a sentiment often horribly shaded with racism and homophobia - is a desire for revenge. But grievous injury to the perpetrator is not the best legacy we can hope for in this tragedy.

I am hugely relieved that Sandusky will be held accountable for his bad acts. I was deeply moved to hear Pennsylvania Attorney General Linda Kelly say on NPR, "One of the recurring themes of the witnesses' testimony, which came from the voices of the victims themselves in this case, was, 'Who would believe a kid?' And the answer to that question is, we here in Bellefonte, Pa., would believe a kid."

May this be one of the enduring legacies of this tragedy: May we believe children.

And may another legacy be for loving, safe adults to educate and empower ourselves to protect children so that something like this never happens again.

The Northampton-based child abuse prevention organization Stop it Now! puts it this way: "'Be that adult.' The adult who is there for children and young people. The adult who learns to recognize warning signs. The adult who is not afraid to speak up about concerning behaviors towards children. The adult who is like a broken record until their concerns are taken seriously."

Like so much of self-defense, speaking up for kids requires trusting your instincts and using your strong, assertive voice. It is hard and scary work.

Too many of us hesitate to speak out because we fear we might be wrong. In the Sandusky case we see the worst outcome when people don't speak out. But nothing so terrible could ever happen from grownups holding each other accountable for safe boundaries and appropriate behavior.
In fact, as an anti-violence educator, I believe that parents' insistence on safety practices serves your children's self-defense interests even if the adult in question would never have perpetrated against them.
By setting the bar high you teach your child to expect gold-standard behavior from adults. You help to hone her instincts - what one of my students calls "the internal creep-o-meter." You model how to speak up when your sense of safety is compromised.

As we say in my religious community, "We're not safe because we love each other; we're safe because we follow safety rules."

These are some of my family's safety rules:

No secrets. Safe grownups don't ask kids to keep secrets.

Your body is your own. No one can touch you in any way that is not OK with you.

Kids' needs come first. A safe grownup doesn't use kids to serve his adult emotional needs.

In community programs there are rules as well:

No favoritism. Programs that serve children treat all kids equally. "Special" relationships between grownups in authority positions and children are suspect.

Transparency. My child enrolls only in programs that welcome my full participation and presence. Any class or teacher that requires me to cede access or control of my child to them is disallowed.

Best practices. Programs serving children should have established policies and procedures for preventing violence against children. You can learn more about best practices and the warning signs of sexual abuse at www.stopitnow.org.

Responses to your advocacy can tell you a lot. Organizations serving kids should welcome parents' feedback, willingly review policies and procedures and quickly correct errors and oversights. An organization that fails to do so may be protecting an abuser or it may be poorly managed and dysfunctional. Either way it falls short of best practices and is not a good fit for your family.

Similarly, an individual who is committed to your children's safety should be curious about the practices you are teaching your children so they can reinforce them. A grownup who won't follow safety rules - even if a beloved relative or friend - is not a safe grownup.

Jerry Sandusky's victims demonstrated courage and dignity beyond measure in bringing this perpetrator to justice. The greatest legacy we can give them is to approximate a fraction of their bravery and take a stand for children's safety.

mind body mama: Sex Ed

There’s a squick factor in thinking about our kids as sexual beings.  That’s a good thing, it’s the incest taboo doing its job.  But like so many parts of parenting—diapers, Pokemon,  interminable dance recitals—sex ed requires us to be uncomfortable. It demands that we look the squick factor square in the eye and consider what we most want for our kids as they grow.

Recently I remarked that, since training with my Coach in reality-based bad-assery, I’m inspired to bite Sweetie’s ear when she embraces me.

I saw Jennifer Aniston biting someone’s ear in a movie, said Small. (A little digging revealed it was a magazine article about a movie.  Nine year olds don’t watch ear-biting movies in this family.)

In a sexy way or a self defense way? I clarified.

In a sexy way, said a sassy girl.  

I don’t bite the Coach’s ear in a sexy way, I said. That would not be appropriate.

I know that, Mama, said Small.  Cue eyeroll.

So I asked Dre what book I should buy to tell Small the next chapter in the saga of the birds and the bees.  She recommended the classic bird and bee tale, It's Perfectly Normal, and I checked it out on Amazon before heading down to the local bookseller.

Jender always says, Dude, don’t read the comments. 

I read the comments.

I wasn’t shocked by the prudery, the homophobia, the conviction parents hold that their kids are too young for this information.  I hear the same things in a self defense context all the time—even though my kid’s been learning about her body, reproduction, sex, love and safety skills since she was born.  (There is no such thing as too young to have a body. )

But I was hurt to read the reviews that said, one way or another, “This book tells kids that sex is fun.  Kids shouldn’t know that.”

My nine year old is down with the idea that there exist experiences that are fun for grown ups but are not appropriate for kids.  Her life is rife with examples.  The grown-up pleasures that drive her to eye-crossing boredom, like lingering at the table after a dinner party, attending worship, or lounging in a camp chair at an outdoor concert.  Or the grown up pleasures that are off –limits by parental decree, like riesling and Facebook and Jennifer Aniston movies.

It’s not that complicated to add sex to the list.  To tell her the truth: super fun, not for kids.

Because if there’s one thing I want my kid to know about sex, it’s that it’s fun.  That’s why I’m saying it early and often: when you are ready for sex, it will be fun for you.

That knowledge is a super-power that turns on a girl’s spidey-senses.  That knowledge makes it possible for her to know, should she ever need to know,  “This isn’t fun for me, and that’s not OK.”

I don’t want my girl to comply with sex to satisfy a partner or a peer group norm.  I don’t even want her to consent, to check her internal OK-meter at whatever someone else initiates, and then respond thumbs-up or -down.

I want her to want.

I want her sex life to be about desire.  I want her to know pleasure and to seek it out.

I’ve been around the block a few times. Unfortunately, the first time I was being dragged by my hair.

The second time I was crawling, pulling myself up on wobbly legs by leaning on the strong arms of partners who were not satisfied by the absence of my “no.”  Partners who earned my “yes.”

It’s taken a lifetime to outrun shame and sorrow.  Still sometimes I stumble when I wish I was sprinting, leaning into a turn of love or lust.  Sometimes the skipped heartbeat of desire skids into the terrified percussion of survival.

I’ve been around the block a few times.  I know my girl’s first lap is likely to be more wander than dash.  There will be some trembles in those little colt legs.  Some fear, some confusion.

But I want a wild passion to run that race.  I want my daughter’s sexual activity to be the physical expression of her desire for connection, and love, and yes—pleasure.  I want it to be safe and ethical and principled, of course—but a large part of what will make it thus is for her to be at the center of every sexual experience.  Not just a willing participant but an active and  driving force.  Just as I teach her to expect respect for her boundaries, I will teach her to expect physical joy and to accept nothing less.

May it be so.

mind body mama: Naming Things

That poem you wrote… she said.

It wasn’t a poem, I said.

It had meter!  It had repetition!  It had rhythm! she said.

Ninth grade English, she said.  It was a poem!

OK, ok, ok,  I said.   By then we were laughing.  It was a poem.

But it wasn’t a poem.

It was a prayer.

mind body mama: Confrontation Management

I’ve been teaching feminist self-defense for two decades.  I had hoped things would be very different by now.  But I still meet women every day who can’t state their expectations without apology.  Who negotiate with their toddlers instead of setting limits.  Who introduce themselves with a question mark at the end of the sentence as if they’re not sure of their own name.  Who describe enduring unwanted conversation, attention or touch because they don’t know how to assert themselves.

Most of the time I’ve taught assertive communication I’ve begun with a rationalization of sorts.  You have a right to establish your own boundaries, I might say.  Or, if it’s not OK with you, it’s not OK.  This justification loop is born out of long experience.  I know what kind of push back I can get from my female students.  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, one might say, or, Isn’t that rude?

My new Coach’s approach to verbal skills is a little different.  

He often refers to the verbal part of a self-defense scenerio as “confrontation management.”  He doesn’t assume that I need to be talked into standing up for myself when someone approaches me with hostile intent.  He assumes that—as quickly as possible—I’ll want to make it clear that I’m running the show.

My Coach has not suggested that I stand up straight, or make eye contact, or speak in statements rather than questions, or use an audible tone of voice.  I’m guessing he’s on board with these tips.  He just takes things one better. He has instructed me to command, growl, threaten and describe in psychotic detail my plans to eat my would-be attacker alive if he continues his course of action.

It’s almost as if my Coach is not hung up on the fact that one might be afraid if assaulted.  He seems to assume that we’d be pissed the fuck off.

There is something about entering the privilege of this male perspective, even as a guest, that is so unfettered, so unabashedly liberating, it makes me giddy. 

I take it that my Coach has often trained men, including those who anticipate the need for empty-hand combat skills in their work.  Law enforcement officers and military personnel, for example.  They assume that they will be in the right, that they will be assaulted by someone bad and wrong. Someone who must be neutralized, managed, controlled, and shown the error of his ways—through extreme bodily damage if no other means has effect.

I have most often taught women who fervently hope they will never need to fight back.   Who deny the overwhelming evidence that they will be or have already been victimized.  Who have been socialized to justify, excuse or defend the behaviors that could tip them off to an impending attack.  Who were told since childhood that their gender is antonymous with physical fighting.  And who, in our rape-culture, will be blamed for whatever harm is done to them.

I have always called bullshit on all of this: gender policing and denial and victim blaming. But since I’ve seen the male approach up close and personal I’m ready to take it one better.  It’s not enough to wheedle my students into standing up for themselves, to cajole them into making eye contact or saying their name as if they are sure they know who they are.  I will not be satisfied by ladies learning how to tell, rather than ask, their toddlers to put their fucking shoes on. 

What if the only delay in response to an unwelcome touch was the limitation of our neurology?  What if we heard footsteps behind us on a dark street and felt our hearts beat with rage, not terror?  What if we didn’t feel lucky to escape an attack, but pissed the fuck off that someone wanted to hurt us to begin with?

What if we noticed that one in five of us would be raped in our lifetimes and we all got batshit fucking angry?

Could be the makings of a confrontation management movement, sisters.

mind body mama: somersault

One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen is Jender being thrown through the air in a forward roll.

There was a time when I thought I’d never see it again.

But then there was the Coach grasping her wrist, and there was Jender airborne, her body curved and weightless, rotating and touching down and then springing up from the mat.

One day my clients ran late and I could not get to mat class on time and when I walked past the studio I saw that no one else had shown up.  My teacher was alone practicing his rolls, tossing his body into the air like a coin.

When I watch someone roll I don’t see it with my eyes, I see it with my body.  I feel my stomach flip; I see the ground come up to meet me.  I feel weightless and round.  I feel flight.

But when I kneel on the mat to roll myself I feel that I am made of a sequence of wooden blocks attached with superglue, without benefit of articulating joints. Gravity pulls on the bowling ball of my head.  I try to bend my neck to tuck it out of the way of the impending ground and feel the pull of resistant muscles all the way down to my shoulder blades.

My daughter is sure that the Coach is training me to be an Evil Supervillain.

“What superpowers are you working on with your Coach?” she asks me.

“Bending my neck.”

“Shooting lasers when you bend your neck?” she corrects hopefully.

“No, just bending my neck.”

There lives in me a moment when I will freeze like a rabbit, every tiny hair trembling in terror.  My self threatens to jump ship, to bust out of the container of my body on each beat of my pounding heart. This moment becomes every moment of acute stress response when I neither fought nor fled but froze, held in a tractor-beam of shame or fear or desire. Or all three in mixity-match: desire as painful as a toothache, terror as delicious as lust.

All this comes forth at any moment called trigger, sudden and stunning as a two-by-four across the chest.   

The forward roll lives on the edge of this moment.

Any survivor will tell you: some days are good days.  The edges of now align with what is really in the room.  Sometimes you stay in your body shell for the whole tumble.  The two-by-four never lands, the hands on your skin remain your lover’s, you throw yourself ass-over-teakettle in a perfectly imperfect roll and feel every inch of it instead of watching from the ceiling.  Other days are bad days.  Your breath is knocked out of you.  There is no safe touch.  The grit on the ground grinds into your knees as you screw up the courage to spin yourself forward into the skill.  Your body bounces while your being crouches in the corner like a wild dog.

I never know which day it is when I bow onto the mat. 

What I do know is that I will find out, fast.  I do know that I have chosen a teacher who will not shame me for stopping or going slow or needing an extra beat, an extra breath to find my center.  I do know that the mad skills I have for coming back to myself are as badass as any brutal thing my Coach might teach me next.  I do know that my training partner believes when one of us gets stronger, we all get stronger, and does not feel her learning compromised by my stuck places.  I do know that if my teacher or my training partner ever fails me in this regard—through ignorance or tradition or fear or their own stuck places—I have the right and the ability to get myself safe, by whatever means I need.  I do know that face-saving and protocol pale beside the true definition of self-defense: whatever you do to keep yourself safe, body, mind and spirit.

I might not know how to do a perfect forward roll yet but I learn something every time I try.